i am the outsider drifting
slipstream shifting
through & through
a directionless beggar
desert rags wrapped
red around wrists &
broken at my mouth
open fractured to speak
i croak & rasping
thirsty for the dawn
Category: writing
outsider
games
Photo by Dariusz Sankowski on Unsplash always unknowing & unreadable
her eyes play from the shadows
teasing & taunting
forgive me, i am so tired
of these gamesTowards the Within — Næturblóm
© Sebastian Iskra, listed as “free to use”. I’ll admit that I haven’t been listening to music so much as playing it since I picked up my bass guitar, so I’m going to fall back on a band used to help seed my original exploration, Kælan Mikla, a three-piece band from Reykjavík, Iceland.
(more…)red dirt
Photo by Wes Hicks on Unsplash sitting the red dirt
casting needle bone raw
hey fox, ho owl
what tales do winds tell?
given to ghost on promise
tied leather, wrapped lace
turning on bright flame
if the memory serves you
well
sitting the red dirt
between pine and swell
hey owl, ho fox with
promises winds tellunexpected outcomes
Photo by Suzanne Rushton on Unsplash mad hare, what drove you
to dodge the night fallen snow
from here to there and back again
all dizzy in your frenzy?
it seems you lost your head
the large crow said, as he
cleaned up the mess of you
left out in the yard behindneverclean
Photo by Dariusz Sankowski on Unsplash this grove mine to closed
sometimes gardening doubt
within the septic thorn
black in blood scratched
crosscut and hatched hidden
behind a thin pale veil
draped across my heart
in nevercleanTo Stone
Photo by Wes Hicks on Unsplash You and I, we hung moon in arctic turquoise skies above the gravestones of friends buried in the Evernight. For remembrance, certainly, but also for that our own souls could the words to move on. To find our smoke and ride the starry road North to Stone.
Ancestors, they came to our Gathering Flame; those sitting as were wont to sit, those standing as were wont of standing. All sought the Strange dancing in the flames, be they feather, flesh or fur. Even the alder man came, his sap reddening ran.
And they spoke at length for fourteen days of gloam, each giving words to carry to the below or for how they must be brought. We gathered and, just before the dawn meant for leaving shores, all gathered and sang to welcome the sun adorned.
One step, then four, we entered wearing our horns and gave to follow the floes, leaving the snowfells behind. And Ancestors? They watched, forlorn, each wishing in their own way our safe journey on to Stone.
killing jar
Photo by Dariusz Sankowski on Unsplash shake, twist the flame
dancing on the edge
give shout and no one
seems to hear
becoming flutter
all wraith and dream
with a voice gone mute
and eyes, no longer see
a history on display
inside for the killing jarburning books
Photo by Ville Palmu on Unsplash these witching hour dreams
what are they supposed to
mean?
that chapter has long been
burned at the stake i cannot
will it into being
leave now, o ghost
so perhaps we can dream
another life
where our books no long burn
